Page 32 of The Unlikely Spare

Pierce reminded me to keep my head down, not antagonize the prince. But Jaysus, after being trapped in a metal tube with His Royal Highness for twenty-four hours, I’m about ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his crown.

Every ounce of self-control I’ve got is going toward not grabbing him by his expensive lapels and explaining what I think of entitled pricks who treat their protection officers as target practice for royal wit.

A movement in the crowd snaps my attention back where it should be.

Because people are surging forward, and these aren’t the usual flag-waving grannies cooing over royalty. Protesters aresurging against the barriers, chanting loudly. One of them has climbed on another protester’s shoulders, holding a massive sign readingDECOLONIZE THE CROWN. The rest are hammering their fists against the metal barriers, making them shake with each hit.

I can see the cops tensing, hands drifting to their batons like they’re expecting this to go sideways any second.

Then I clock her. A woman in blue, breaking away from the main pack. Her hand’s sliding into her bag, and every instinct I’ve got starts screaming.

Fear grabs me by the throat.

“Incoming, female subject, blue shirt,” Singh reports through our earpieces.

The woman pulls something out of her bag, and I’m moving.

I wrap an arm around Nicholas’s waist. My other hand presses against his chest, pivoting our bodies so my back faces the incoming threat.

Something hits my shoulder blade. It’s cold and wet, instantly soaking through my suit jacket to my skin.

But I’m not focused on that. Instead, all my senses seem to be consumed with the fact that Nicholas is pressed fully against me, chest to chest, tucked perfectly into the shield of my body. His startled breath is warm against my neck, his heart hammering beneath my palm.

I note it all with the same precision I’d use at a crime scene. Accelerated pulse, shallow breathing, muscles tense.

Except this time, I’m feeling it too.

I breathe in his expensive cologne as his fingers clutch my suit jacket.

He pulls back far enough so our eyes can lock.

His eyes are wide, but there is only surprise, not fear, as they search mine.

Then reality crashes back as security swarms around us.

I look down. There are drops of red splattered on Nicholas’s shoe, and for a second, I think one of us is bleeding before I realize it’s red paint.

The woman must have thrown a paint bomb.

“Subject contained,” comes Cavendish’s voice in my earpiece. “Extract the prince immediately.”

“Time to go,” I tell Nicholas.

I don’t wait for his response, moving him so I’m still sheltering him with my body, one hand pressed against his lower back as I steer him through the chaos.

A black SUV waits, engine running, Blake holding the door with weapon ready. Only when Nicholas is safely inside do I allow myself to breathe.

I slide into the seat next to him, the red paint on my suit leaving a smear across the pristine leather as the car begins to crawl forward.

“I don’t think red is really your color, O’Connell.” Nicholas’s voice carries his usual aristocratic drawl. But he’s twisting his signet ring, indicating he’s not as unflustered as he’s pretending to be.

“Red has never been my color.” I shrug off my jacket so I can examine the paint splatter. “Though people rarely ask my fashion preferences before throwing things at me.”

Nicholas huffs out a sharp laugh that cuts off suddenly as if the sound surprised him.

The car is slowly pushing through the protesters who have breached the security barrier.

Their anger is a physical force battering against our armor-plated sanctuary.DECOLONIZE NOWshouts one placard.NO CROWN ON STOLEN GROUNDproclaims another, the words surrounding a crudely drawn crown crossed out in violent red.